On Being Brave and Living
by Jet Wolf
Summary: Seven vignettes for seven Scoobies facing the rest of forever without Buffy.
1. Willow Knows

**Standard disclaimer:** The characters aren't mine. This should come as no surprise. I am simply a teller of stories that occasionally claw their way desperately out of my head.

**Setting:** "The Gift", post-swan dive.

**Notes:** While working on another project a couple of months ago, I spent a moment examining each person's reactions to seeing Buffy at the end of "The Gift", and soon found myself puttering around in their brains a little bit. Then the puttering turned into a desire to write it down. Probably not surprisingly (to me, anyway) Willow's was written within moments, and I pretty much planned to stop there. Then Anya piped up, and in typical Anya fashion refused to be silent until I had given her ample opportunity to express herself. Just Willow and Anya didn't make a whole lot of sense though, so I decided to turn this into an exercise on finding each character's voice. In some cases, the characters were more than happy to share their thoughts with me. Others, I had to bully into opening up. Silly close-lipped fictional people. Still, all told I think I learned a lot from writing this, and am damned happy to have it finally complete.

_(2 January 2004)_

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter One: Willow Knows**

_Oh god. Oh god. Buffy. No. God, no._

The words kept repeating themselves in Willow's brain as she beheld the broken body of her best friend, her Buffy, strewn on the debris from their battle with Glory like a discarded doll. She was limp. Still. Not breathing. Dea—

_Please, god, no. Buffy, please._

Willow wanted to run to Buffy's side, to shake her, scream at her, call her back from wherever she'd run, just like she had not a few hours before. God, had it really only been a few hours ago? Buffy had needed someone then, and only Willow could help her. Only Willow had the power to enter Buffy's mind, only Willow had the connection to the Slayer necessary to wander through the hurt and the fear and bring Buffy back to them. Only Willow.

She could do it again. She knew at that moment, clearer than any other thought she had ever had, Willow knew that she could do it again. She would reenter Buffy's mind. The pathway was still fresh; it could be traversed within moments. Go in Buffy's mind and bring her back. Keep her anchored until the others could revive her body. Keep her here. Keep her safe. Not let her go. Never let her go.

She managed to take just one step before her injured leg betrayed her and the arms around her tightened, holding her fast. _Dammit, let me go!_ she wanted to yell. _This is all my fault, don't you understand?!_ Those arms that she'd been so desperate to reclaim, the only things that helped keep the nightmares away were now all that stood between Willow and her redemption. Willow wanted to scream, she wanted to punch and bite and kick. She wanted so desperately to be free, but she could only whimper. She knew at that moment, clearer than any other thought she had ever had, Willow knew that it was far, far too late.

And it was all her fault.

Buffy's voice echoed in her ears. _"I need you, Will. You're my big gun."_ Willow had swelled with pride (and yeah, okay, some fear) at those words. But no jelly-belly for Willow, no siree. They were going to end this once and for all. Get Tara's mind back, save Dawnie, send that Hellbitch running back to whatever skanky hole she climbed out of and all live happily ever after. That was the plan. Willow liked that plan. She loved happy endings.

_"You're my big gun."_ Only where was the big gun when Buffy needed her?

Things started out so well. Willow had taken Glory completely by surprise and managed to do her real damage, acting as a conduit for siphoning Tara's mind back to that beautiful body where it belonged. And hey, nobody's head exploded, so that had to be a big tick in the hero column. The force of the spell had sent them all flying and Willow was knocked unconscious for a few minutes. But when she woke up, rather than thinking about Glory or Buffy or Dawn, Willow had only one thought on her mind.

Tara.

Was she okay? The true effects of the spell were 70% guesswork on Willow's part, and she was terrified that she'd somehow managed to make things worse. How much worse things could get, Willow didn't know, but she wasn't keen on finding out. Not that she wasn't growing fond of the stream of curses, irrational slaps and applesauce facials, but … Well, okay, not fond of any of those things. But Willow could deal. _"You're my always,"_ she'd told Tara, and although the blonde had shown no sign of comprehension, Willow had to believe that deep down, swimming somewhere behind those confused blue eyes, the real Tara was listening and had drawn comfort from those words.

But what if Willow had somehow managed to screw things up even more? Those brief, precious moments of lucidity where Tara seemed almost like herself, where she would laugh and grace Willow with a smile full of pure love and innocence … Those were the moments that Willow lived for. To lose even that was unthinkable. Unbearable.

_"Tara?"_ she'd asked, crawling on her hands and knees. _"Tara?"_ she'd asked again, her voice small and full of fear as her love's eyes opened. For a few tense moments, nothing. Willow's heart was thundering in her ears as she felt her hopes plummet. But then …

_"Willow?"_

And it was the sweetest sound Willow had ever heard.

The world fell away. Despite the danger and violence surrounding them on all sides, despite the looming threat of yet another apocalypse … Despite everything, Willow simply held on as Tara sobbed out all the pain and horror, whispering love and assurance, clinging desperately to her girl as though Tara might slip away again the moment the embrace was broken.

Those were the critical moments. If Willow had been a better person, a better witch, she might have helped her best friend before Buffy had to make with the heroics and save them all. If Willow immediately rejoined the battle, she might have been able to immobilize Glory long enough for Buffy to reach and rescue Dawn. If Willow had broken away from Tara just one minute sooner, she might have noticed the demon slowly approaching Dawn, murderous intent and blind devotion to Glory so apparent; might have alerted Spike to intercept before the demon ever reached its target. If Willow had spent more time researching bigger, better spells and less time looking for ways to bring Tara back, she might have been able to stop all of this before it ever reached the breaking point.

But the worst part of all, the part that was killing her, was that Willow knew that if she had the chance to do it all again, she wouldn't do a damn thing different.

_"I need you, Will."_

_I need you too, Buffy_, Willow thought in response, unable to look away from the image in front of her. She felt her body wracked with sobs and almost entirely supported by Tara, but was removed from it, like she was casually observing the physical reactions to her grief in her peripheral vision. _I need you too, and I'm going to get you back. You counted on me, and I let you down. I swear to god, it won't happen again. I won't let it._

Willow felt something click inside, like some part of her was waking up from a long nap. It yawned and stretched and decided that it liked what it found. She knew at that moment, clearer than any other thought she had ever had, Willow knew that nothing – **nothing** was going to stop her.

The world needed Buffy. **Willow** needed Buffy. So Willow would get Buffy back. It was all really quite that simple.


	2. No Sense

**Header-y Stuff:** See part one. 

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter Two: No Sense**

It just didn't make any sense.

Anya shifted uncomfortably in Xander's arms, trying without much success to ignore the screaming pain in her legs, her back, her head, and looked at Buffy's body. The useless meat sack that used to be home to the Slayer. She expected Buffy to get back up again at any moment. Buffy always came through. That was just what Buffy did. Anya had accepted Buffy's indomitable and frankly irritating ability to win as simple truth. It was one of those things you could always count on. Like the law of supply and demand, or the inherent treachery of men, or Xander's desire for orgasms after watching an episode of _Voyager_ with that Borg woman. Buffy just didn't lose. Ever. So why wasn't she getting back up?

It just didn't make any sense.

Not for the first time since this horror show had begun, Anya wished she had skipped town. Running as fast and as far away from the danger as possible was just the smart thing to do. These stupid mortal bodies were too easily snapped and torn, and Anya liked her insides on the **inside**, thank you very much. Anya had plenty of practice at running away from an oncoming apocalypse. One might even go so far as to say that fleeing in terror was one of her many strengths. But last time she had tried that, she'd wound up in a cheap and poorly ventilated hotel room about a hundred miles outside of Sunnydale, where she'd spent the night hunched over a toilet, dry heaving after her stomach was completely devoid of content, worried as hell that something might happen to Xander.

And that was before all the copulating and the secure feelings and the stupid, stupid proposal.

Not that he'd had to produce a lovely, expensive-looking ring to convince her that running was no longer an option. As much as she hated to admit it, Anya knew she couldn't leave without Xander, and her attempt at convincing him to run away with her had met with spectacular failure.

_"What? I-- What? Run? No way."_

"But you were fine with running away before."

"Yeah, but that was with everybody. We were all along for the jaunty group run-fest. You're talkin' just you and me. That's not a group. That's a duet without backing orchestra."

"They don't need you. They don't need **either** of us. We don't have Slayer strength, or magic, or that handy vampire immortality. We're just human. Mortal. What can we do besides stay and die?"

"I'm not leaving Buffy and Willow to face Glory alone."

And with that, Xander had refused to even listen to Anya's logical and well-argued points. She cursed him repeatedly (though not really, and oh how she cursed that little deficiency too), but he remained steadfast and unwavering. Abandon his precious Willow and Buffy? Perish the thought.

What was even more frustrating was that his dedication and loyalty, despite the odds, was one of the things she loved most about him.

It just didn't make any sense.

So Xander's decision to stay sealed Anya's fate as well, and she had invested considerable effort in coming up with a plan to keep them both from dying horribly. Since she and Xander were still breathing and the world hadn't been plunged into chaos, Anya was tempted to say that it had been a rousing success. Only Buffy had died, and Buffy was neither Anya nor Xander, so yay. Right?

Only if that were true, then why did she feel so … numb? She had experienced the painful "grief" emotion when Joyce died, but this felt different. Closer, and yet somehow further away. Perhaps she was simply emoting on Xander's behalf? She may not have liked it, but Anya was only too well aware of the depth of Xander's feelings for the Slayer. She knew that this would devastate him.

Anya wanted to turn to Xander now, to begin the healing process immediately, right this second, so they could get over the disquieting and unpleasant mourning period as quickly as possible. She wanted to turn around in his arms, make him focus on nothing but her and their future wedding plans. And yet …

Why couldn't she look away? Why was she still staring at Buffy, expecting the Slayer to get up and make some inappropriate yet amusingly droll comment? Why were Anya's thoughts drifting instead to memories of late-night conversations over mountains of research text? Why was she remembering her plans to spend money imprudently at the mall with Buffy a week from next Tuesday? Why was she crying?

It just didn't make any sense.


	3. Joking Matters

**Header-y Stuff:** See part one. 

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter Three: Joking Matters**

Xander's mind rejected the scene before him. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. That wasn't the really real Buffy. It was a trick. An evil, unfunny trick by evil, unfunny demons. Buffy couldn't die. Buffy could never die.

Xander looked over at Willow, expecting, begging her to shoot him an amused "gotcha" smile. Like the time she'd pretended to rip out one of the pages of his _Giant Sized X-Men #1_. That had been funny like a healthy dose of dysentery, and oh, the laughing once the crying stopped. Just a joke at Xander's expense. A big ol' bushel of amusement, fun for the whole family.

But Willow wasn't laughing. Willow was crying. Willow was crying like her heart had been ripped out and stomped on.

Okay, so she just wasn't in on the joke. That's all.

Giles! The G-Man, guy with all the answers! He'd be in the know, no doubt. He wouldn't necessarily laugh, but he'd say something appropriately scathing and British while cleaning his glasses in that confusingly superior way for so mundane a task. Nobody was better at cutting Xander into itty-bitty Xander parts than Giles, and the Watcher could never let an opportunity pass him by.

Xander quickly looked over to Giles, anxious to resume his role as "lovable yet ultimately ineffectual comic relief guy". He waited for the punchline, readied himself to deliver a witty response.

But Giles wasn't smirking, or cleaning his glasses, or doing anything at all but staring in stunned disbelief.

If Willow didn't know, and Giles didn't know, then …

Xander's attentions returned to Buffy, his thoughts frantic.

_get up get up getupgetupgetup_

The realization suddenly rushed through Xander, like his veins had been injected with ice water. This was no joke. Buffy wouldn't be getting up, dusting herself off and complaining about her ruined shirt. They'd never again dance together, or watch unsubbed foreign movies, or drink virgin strawberry daiquiris at the Bronze while trying to convince Willow that they were the real thing. Buffy was dead and there was nothing Xander could do about … about anything at all, really.

_Dammit! Why am I so frikkin' useless?!_

The urge to hit something was almost overwhelming. Xander didn't just blame walls this time. He blamed the crazy people who built the Tower of Doom. He blamed the hobbity minions for being so crusty. He blamed Glory for her stupid, perfect hair. He blamed the monks for sending the Key to their tiny little corner of Hell and being so damned sneaky in making sure Buffy protected it. He blamed the air for not re-entering her body. He blamed Giles for not fulfilling his job description and watching out for her. He blamed whoever was responsible for creating a universe that was so prone to become apocalyptic. He blamed Spike for a currently unspecified reason, but was confident he'd come up with something before too long.

He blamed Buffy for dying.

But mostly? He blamed himself for letting her.

There was a part of Xander that was still in love with Buffy. He would never admit it to anybody, and only barely admitted it to himself on occasion, but it continued to exist even without validation. Not that this was altogether surprising. Parts of him were, after all, still in love with Willow, too. And Stacey Gardner from junior high, and Nancy Stevens from junior high, and Cordelia. Okay, Cordelia, maybe not so much, but the point was that the girls who managed to worm their way into Xander's heart took up permanent residence. He never really felt bad about that; he wasn't the heart part of the Super Buffy for nothing. Xander was a comfortador -- he loved his girls, even when they didn't love him the same way.

But Buffy was always different somehow. Special, in a way that nobody else could be, not even Willow, not even Anya. Buffy was the one that he'd never had even the tiniest chance with. Buffy was what might have been, had Xander been a little less pathetic, if Buffy had been a little less platonic, if Angel had been a little more dusty.

Not that he wasn't happy with what he had. Xander loved Anya, he truly did. But he couldn't help himself sometimes thinking about what might have been. And wondering why things never seemed more attractive than when you couldn't have them. Now, more than ever, he knew he would never have Buffy. He thought he'd never wanted anything more in his entire life.

_What are we gonna do now?_ he thought. _The Scoobies help Buffy. That's what we do. But without Buffy …_

Xander surprised himself by having an answer. They would carry on. They would mourn Buffy, bury her, and then keep doing the job that had taken her life. Buffy sacrificed herself for the world. That sacrifice would never be in vain, not if Xander Harris had something to say about it. He would keep fighting the good fight as "lovable yet ultimately ineffectual comic relief guy" 'til the bitter end, when he could see Buffy again and **personally** blame her for dying on them.

The Scooby Gang would fight on without Buffy. They'd patrol, dust vamps, and maybe even save the world a time or two. All without Buffy. It'd be like she wasn't even gone.

Xander hoped that his friend was able to hear his thoughts. She always did like a good joke.


	4. Curse the Darkness

**Header-y Stuff:** See part one. 

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter Four: Curse the Darkness**

She wasn't altogether sure that what she was seeing was real. For …

_Hours? Days? Months? Years? Lifetimes?_

… a while she'd been … somewhere else. Bad. Dark. Cold. Alone with the things that skittered around her constantly except when they didn't, never staying still long enough to be seen, acknowledged, rationalized. Alone, she cursed the darkness. She'd tried to get out. She was sure she'd tried to get out. She'd never found a way. But there was always a way. Someone used to tell her that. Someone warm and beautiful and safe whose soft words and gentle hands would soothe her fresh bruises while singing quiet words of comfort. Someone who found her own way out and left behind a lonely and terrified little girl all on her own to deal with the cooking and the cleaning and the fists. Alone. In the dark. With the cursing.

Sometimes she thought she'd found the way out. She'd see the warm smile and the emerald pools and the red waves and be overcome with a joyous certainty that if she could just reach out and touch perfection that she would be saved. But those moments were fleeting. The image of home might twist in on itself and become a distorted black thing, a mockery with a cruel smile and unforgiving hands, and she would lash out with every ounce of strength she could muster. Or it might simply fade away, consumed in the endless darkness that invariably sought to reclaim her.

Then everything changed. At first, there had only been the need to build. Every nerve in her body screamed with the desire to create the tower that had been emblazoned into her brain. She had tried to follow the commands, but found herself restrained and unable to comply. Her inability to fulfill her only task in life was distressing, but the green was always there – the lovegreen or the glowgreen or some other comforting presence – and the deep shame and loathing she felt would subside for a time.

And then suddenly she was free. _Don't you have some place to be?_ She didn't hesitate, walking away from the lovegreen and the deathblack and the empty shell and the marked one. She knew where to go, and she headed there directly, stopping only to toss aside the useless bindings trapping her crushed hand.

When she felt Her touch a shoulder and roughly swing her around, she had been filled with an overwhelming awe, equal parts worship and terror.

And then the world exploded.

Fingers wriggling in her mind and she cried out in agony. She had experienced this before, repeatedly in the tiny room with no doors, but this time was different. Instead of feeling like she was losing, she felt herself returning. Everything she ever was and ever could be came rushing back and she was swept away in a tidal wave of pain and memories.

Again, she was alone in the dark. But something had changed. There were no rough hands bringing pain. There were no voices whispering in her ear. She had finally found the way out.

Tara opened her eyes.

Lovegr-- Willow's face consumed her vision, and for a moment Tara was paralyzed with fear. Was this merely another cruel trick she was playing on herself? It felt different, but maybe her mind had simply learned a new method of torture. Tara steeled herself for the inevitable transformation, for Willow's hair to become black as night, for her eyes to morph into bottomless, soulless pits of rage and power as had happened countless times in her living nightmares. But the change never came, and as Tara watched Willow's face crumple with disappointment and grief, she knew that this was the real thing.

She was back. Willow had found her.

At first, Tara could do nothing but cry, nearly hysterical after her ordeal. She allowed herself a rare moment of selfishness, not caring about the war being fought just a few feet away. Willow cried too, rocking her back and forth, and right then, nothing else mattered but the two of them.

When the sobbing finally subsided and Willow broke away to survey the battle, Tara was left to try and puzzle out what had happened since she … got lost. There hadn't been time for explanations. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, calming her mind and body as her mother had taught her all those years ago. When she opened them again, she could see.

Not surprisingly, Willow's aura was the first to attract her attention. Tara was shocked to see how much it had changed in the brief time she'd been away. It was still the deep, warm red of strawberries, but now it was tinged with … Goddess, what WAS that? Tara frowned, and felt a tight knot of concern form in her stomach. What had happened while she was away to cause Willow's aura to become so … tainted? It was clear that her love had somehow managed to increase her power; it was rolling off of her like waves. But those … smudges. Like dirty thumbprints all over the beautiful portrait that was Willow. Unbidden, the image of the darker, more sinister, twisted version of Willow leapt into her mind, but Tara pushed it aside, violently rejecting the threat it suggested. Willow would never allow herself to abuse magic like that. Tara wasn't sure of a whole heck of a lot, but her trust and confidence in Willow was unwavering.

Her resolve strengthened, Tara's gaze swept the dingy construction yard, seeking her friends. She quickly located them, huddled together some distance away and was pleased to see that they were mostly unchanged. There was something not quite right about Mr. Giles, but Tara chalked it up to tension and concern for Buffy and Dawn. Speaking of …

There was Buffy, a bright white beacon shining in the night about halfway up the tower. Her aura was vivid and certain, and Tara drew comfort from Buffy's strength as she often did. Tara loved Willow with all her heart, but she felt a loyalty to Buffy that was completely separate and wholly her own.

Buffy had accepted her. Buffy had protected her. When her father and brother had tracked her down last year and demanded that Tara return home with them, she had given up. She had, after all, proven them right. Tara had used her powers on her friends, the one thing her mother had told her repeatedly she must never do. _An it harm none, do what thou wilt._ The most basic law, and she had broken it, along with the trust of those most important to her. Her father had been right. She was evil.

_"You want her, Mr. Maclay? Go ahead and take her."_

Tara's heart broke at those words, but it was … comforting in a way. Ever since Willow had appeared in her dorm room that night with her extra flamey candle, Tara felt like she'd been waiting for something to go wrong, feeling guilty for allowing herself to believe, even if only for a minute or two, that her happiness would last. Some people just weren't meant to be happy. Although Tara knew she'd mourn what she'd lost for the rest of her life, at least she had the cold comfort of knowing that in the end, she'd been right. It wasn't much, but it was something.

_"…You just gotta go through me."_

Those words changed everything. In that instant, Tara's entire life opened up to her. Buffy knew what Tara had done, knew what Tara was.

Buffy didn't care.

_"We're family."_

Tara stood now, supporting Willow as the redhead's body was wracked with sobs, and looked at Buffy's body with sadness and regret. She wanted to cry, but knew she couldn't. Not yet. Not while there was still so much pain around her.

All of Tara's life, she had taken care of others. True, she had initially done so under force, but what her father and brother had never understood about Tara was that if they had simply treated her with love and respect, like part of the family, she would have happily taken care of them in return.

Like the love and respect Buffy had shown to Tara.

It wasn't a conscious decision, but Tara knew what she would do to honour Buffy's memory. Buffy had died so her family could stay together. Making sure that happened was the least Tara could do to thank Buffy for allowing her into it. Where Buffy had once given Tara strength, Tara would pass it on to the others. She would be the bright light that kept the darkness away from Dawn, Xander … Willow.

A light to curse the darkness.


	5. Who's Counting?

**Header-y Stuff:** See part one. 

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter Five: Who's Counting?**

Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

That's exactly how long it had been since he realized Buffy's heart wasn't beating any more. Longer since he failed her.

He could sense the others, the whole bleedin' Scooby gang all gathered around her, gawking like a bunch of stupid school children. God, he hated them. Hated their insipid banter and their doe-eyed, goody-goody, rose-tinted view of the world.

Three minutes and fifteen seconds.

And it bloody well wasn't fair. The Slayer saved the world on a nightly basis and this was her reward, take a header off the tower and—

So he'd been right after all. He had told Buffy that in the end she'd want it, just like every Slayer before her. They all had the same sodding death wish. It was in their blood, they couldn't escape it. He'd hoped that maybe … maybe Buffy would be different. She was unlike any Slayer who'd come before her. She had a purpose that went beyond the same ol' song and dance about being the Chosen One and all that. That passion was what made him love her best. It made her blood boil. He loved the smell of boiling blood.

Three minutes and forty-three seconds.

He'd loved them all. The Slayer in China. The Slayer in the underground of New York. The Slayer who now lay a few feet away, dead by a hand that was not his. He even loved the ones he'd never killed. They were such a delectable mix of purity and darkness, an intoxicating elixir of hope and despair.

Great, now he was waxing all bloody poetic. Maybe it had to do with the crying. When had he started crying?

Four minutes and thirty-one seconds.

Spike didn't cry. Spike was a soulless creature. The boy had called him a monster, and it was true. Spike would rather go sunbathing with a bottle of SPF 100 holy water than let those prats see any sort of weakness.

If there **was** a weakness. Which there most definitely was not. Spike killed Slayers, he didn't grieve for them. Come to think of it, he was **glad** the bitch was dead. She'd done nothing but torment him for years, with her righteousness and her inability to say "thank you" and her fist's painful affinity for his nose.

Six minutes and two seconds.

With Buffy out of the way, Spike would rule Sunnydale. He'd get this bloody chip out of his head and show everyone why Spike was a vampire to be feared. He was a killer. A merciless, blood-sucking, rough-and-tumble, ultra-violence, natural born predator. He'd show that bitch what happened to her precious little town and her precious little Scoobies without her around. Teach her to leave him.

Six minutes and seventeen seconds.

Just as soon as he got control of himself again, Spike would show her good and proper.

Six minutes and eighteen seconds.

William cried.

Six minutes and nineteen seconds.


	6. To Watch

**Header-y Stuff:** See part one. 

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter Six: To Watch**

_So this is what it feels like. To finally be done. How remarkably unfulfilling._

Giles stared at Buffy's body with a detached professionalism that would have done Travers proud. He concentrated hard, determined to capture every detail forever in his mind. He had one final entry to make, after all.

_"Love ya, but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes."_

He had always known that it would end this way. He had hoped, as all parents do, to die long before their child, but such a simple expectation was all but doomed to failure between Watchers and Slayers. It was, in fact, the first lesson the Council drilled into the heads of their prospective automatons.

He had sat through more boring lectures on disassociation and impartial observation than he cared to remember, and was both surprised and ashamed to find his mind searching back through the decades to the techniques long forgotten. It simply wouldn't do to become part of this. He was a Watcher.

He had to watch.

Just like he'd watched as Buffy's innocence was chipped away. When they had first met, he had been irritated by her insolence and seeming inability to put the safety of the world above some unfathomable desire to date boys and buy shoes. Giles had argued tirelessly with Buffy about her sacred duties. Better to force her into accepting her destiny now, rather than allow her to foster any misconceptions and face greater pain down the road as she woke up one day and realized that some people in this world simply aren't allowed to be fighter pilots. He watched as his words bounced off and through her, unheeded and ignored, something endearing to poke fun at behind his back. He watched as some days, she began to think he might just be right. He watched as she eventually gave up all hope for any other kind of life.

He had to watch.

Giles wondered when exactly he stopped being her Watcher and became her father. He may not have realized it until the Council forced him to put her through that barbaric test, but it had happened before that. When he had felt the rage bubble up within him as that troll Snyder, with no small amount of glee, informed the faculty that not only was Buffy Summers expelled from school, but that any teachers seeing her on campus were to notify the police immediately? Perhaps when she had overheard him discussing the _Codex_ prophecy about the Master, and had turned on him with such fear and anguish. He wasn't sure. Love was often elusive like that. Sometimes it hit you like a freight train, crystallizing in one easily recalled moment of clarity. At others, it just snuck up on you, subtly morphing from one thing to another while assuring you all the while that it had always been there and never changed.

Which was something of the problem, you see, because Watchers weren't supposed to love their Slayers. They were supposed to watch them. Report on them. Guide them. But never love them.

It briefly occurred to Giles that this was his fault. Oh, not just in a guilty, grief-laden sense. That was obvious. Rather, Giles began to wonder if maybe the Council hadn't been right about everything after all, and that Buffy was now lying dead because of his love for her. She had been so adamant about protecting Dawn that he allowed her happiness to take precedence over his good judgment. He had kept quiet about the Key, despite the fact that with this knowledge, the Council could have helped them discover Glory's plans much sooner, giving them the opportunity to decide what must be done to stop her with more than an hour or so to spare. Would the Council have wanted to take Dawn away? Test her and study her? Kill her? Quite possibly. Even probably. They would do it all in the name of saving the world. And in the name of saving the world, Giles suspected he would have let them.

But there's that love again. For Buffy and for Dawn. For all of them. Sometimes it was so strong that it paled in comparison to his own sacred duties. Most times, if he were being completely honest with himself.

One simply cannot love and watch at the same time. The Council understood this. Giles only understood that every day he loved her he took a step away from his destiny, just as Buffy was forced further towards hers. It hardly seemed fair.

With his Slayer's death, Giles felt pages turn for both of them. She had fulfilled her lot in life, as had he. He had done his duty, averted the apocalypse, and gotten his Slayer killed. It was a full day's work for a Watcher. 

The page had turned, but the book wasn't yet ready to be closed. Buffy had lamented the appalling lack of detail regarding past Slayers and their final battles. She had been hoping for some insight into where they had failed, some sort of way to ensure her own life would not end so tragically. He had failed her on that too. But Giles drew some small amount of comfort from knowing that Buffy's final sacrifice would not go undocumented. Any possible lesson to be learned would be made available. Not just for future generations of Slayers, but for their Watchers as well.

It was hard to love them. But harder still just to watch.


	7. Real People

**Header-y Stuff:** See part one. 

* * *

**On Being Brave and Living  
Chapter Seven: Real People**

Dawn knew they would hate her. How could they not? Buffy was dead because of Dawn. Just like every bad thing that had happened lately was because of Dawn. Spike limped because of Dawn. Willow looked sad all the time now because of Dawn. Tara couldn't feed herself because of Dawn. She was sure that if she thought hard enough about it, she'd find out that her Mom was dead because of her too.

She wished Buffy had let her jump. It was the way things were supposed to be. After all, Dawn didn't even really exist, right? She was just an elaborate, shared illusion, created by a group of stupid, bored monks sitting around with nothing better to do than watch a big blob of green energy. But Buffy was real. Buffy had a real Mom and Dad and real memories and real friends who really loved her. All Dawn had were a set of fake diaries detailing days she'd never lived, a heart full of emotions without substance, and an unnatural and unexplained love of peanut butter that sure felt real but was probably just some sort of residue from the monks. Maybe all they did to pass the time between watching balls of energy and making up her life was eat peanut butter or something.

Buffy didn't understand how important it was for Dawn to jump. Not because she was particularly brave, and certainly not because she was suicidal because she was **so** over that phase now. Dawn had wanted to jump because … it felt right. Like, by jumping she could have given her made-up, messed up life some meaning. The monks may have invented all of the good stuff she could remember, like hugging Buffy during one of the millions of times she cried about Angel or planning a surprise movie night to make Mom and Buffy smile after Dad left, but they weren't in control anymore. Dawn had the chance to do her first, wholly independent bit of good and maybe prove to herself that she really was more than just a big blob of green energy. It would have been important and spectacular and, yeah, she'd be dead afterwards but that would be okay. She wasn't really alive anyway. And maybe she'd get lucky and everyone that mattered would remember what she did for them.

That was Dawn's biggest fear. That they'd all forget. That they'd wake up one day and Dawn would be out of their lives as easily as she was slipped in. Even worse was the idea that they would all forget her, but she'd still be around and remember. Dawn would wake up in a cold sweat some nights after dreaming about trying to get Buffy and the others to remember something that had never happened, crying at their blank stares that looked right through her.

Jumping off the tower, she'd never have to worry about that again. And hey, maybe Keys couldn't die anyway. Glory had said something about Dawn – the real Dawn – going home again after the ritual, didn't she? So everything would have probably worked out okay in the end, and Dawn wouldn't have to face Buffy's body and Buffy's friends who would look at her with such hate … or with nothing at all.

At the back of Dawn's mind, she wondered if she was in shock. She didn't know what that felt like, but it was something she knew actually happened in extreme circumstances because they talked about it on _ER_ all the time. She liked that idea, it felt good. It felt like something a real person would feel. Dawn held on to that thought as she shakily made her way down the tower.

She heard them before she saw them. Willow's gasping sobs led Dawn to her sister, and she felt tears of her own well in her eyes. That was good too. Real people cried. She was pretty sure big blobs of green energy couldn't cry. She stopped on the stairs as soon as she saw Buffy lying on the rubble, and was at once struck by the thought that even dead, Buffy looked pretty. Dawn wondered if she would have looked that pretty if she'd jumped instead, and decided that she probably would've looked like crap. _Just as well you didn't jump, then,_ a voice echoed in her head. _You wouldn't want to get any more scars like the ones on your arm. Kirstie would totally be all over that._ Dawn nearly laughed out loud and then wondered if she was going crazy. Real people sometimes went crazy, though, so that was okay.

Dawn wondered how she could tell everyone. About Buffy's last words. They'd been buzzing around in the back of her head, and she knew she couldn't forget a single one of them if she tried. Even if she turned back into a big blob of green energy right that second, Dawn knew she'd remember every last bit of Buffy's message forever. She wanted to tell them what Buffy had said, how she'd refused to let Dawn jump, and apologize for everything for the rest of her life if they'd let her.

But not right now. Right now, Buffy's words were for Dawn only. Buffy had believed in her. Buffy had loved her. Buffy had died for her. Just like she were a real person.

_"The hardest thing in this world is to live in it,"_ Buffy had told her. Dawn disagreed. The hardest thing in this world was to never have lived in it at all. But Dawn did live, because she was a real person. She was real because Buffy made her that way. It didn't matter that she was once a big blob of green energy because now she was Dawn Summers, daughter of Joyce Summers, sister of Buffy Summers. A 14-year old girl who read "Teen Power", loved chess, and failed her last history test. She would go to her friends, the only family she had left now, and she would give them Buffy's message. They would see her, listen to her, and cry with her.

One more step was all it would take. One more step and she would know if they hated her. If they knew her. She was scared, but she could do this. She would be brave. Live. For Buffy.


End file.
